


The Greatest of These is Love

by EchoSilverWolf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1st corinthians IS rather pretty though, Aziraphale POV, Crowley actually DOES embody Corinthians 1:13, First Kiss, Heathen author using religious text as a guide, Just a pagan girl digging through her Episcopalian upbringing for inspiration, M/M, Please no copying or reposting of my work without permission, This author is sleep deprived, Unapologetic Overuse of Italics, Vignette, love is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf
Summary: Love is patient, Love is kind. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things.Love, Aziraphale thinks, is all of this wrapped in too tight denim and a black jacket.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 63
Collections: Love_Is_2021





	The Greatest of These is Love

**Author's Note:**

> *Written for the LOVE IS challenge on the SVD/Grow Better FB pages*
> 
> A bit broader than one 'thing' that Love Is, it is more Aziraphale and Crowley at a 'tipping point' moment, and Aziraphale mentally ruminating on how Crowley himself embodies love. (with the main bullet points of 1st corinthians as inspiration)
> 
> Thank you to the incomparable englandwouldfalljohn for being, as always, the very best beta, cheerleader, and friend.

Six thousand years, give or take, it's taken them to get here. A dance as old as time itself. Crowley reaching out with encouragements ( _You're an angel_ , _I don't think you can do the wrong thing),_ gifts ( _Shop looks great, angel! I brought you those chocolates you like, to celebrate),_ thoughtful gestures ( _little demonic miracle of my own),_ and above all, unwavering _patience_ . Crowley, a demon, who has spent an eternity taking one step forward and two steps back, offering everything of himself, and asking nothing in return. Never pushing. Never expecting. But always _there._ To go to lunch, do a blessing, stop a beheading. Gentle Crowley, who thinks he goes too fast, and he's quite right to, since those words were uttered by none other than Aziraphale himself. They aren't true. Never have been. Aziraphale was just afraid. Afraid of the consequences...or, perhaps, of his own feelings. Maybe just a bit of both. 

But Crowley kept up the dance. One forward, two back. He may like fast cars and ever-changing human fashions, but where it counts, with Aziraphale, Crowley moves at a glacial speed. No sudden movements. Never too much. But always enough to be heard.

Because Crowley loves _loudly_ . Oh, not with words, goodness, no. Aziraphale knew years ago, _if_ they were ever given the chance, the time, the freedom to love out loud, that Crowley would never say it first. But it has been rolling off the poor dear in waves, tsunamis more like, for millennia. And it both awes him and breaks his heart. He knows this love well. He knows how Crowley feels, how Crowley _wants_ . Wants to feel and touch and _hear_ it from him. But take another step forward? Never. That's not _their_ dance. The dance Crowley began, on a wall at the dawn of creation. If, or when, Aziraphale felt safe enough, it would be on him to take the lead. Change the steps...

Aziraphale loves Crowley, too. Of course he does. Has done for an age, though he only allowed himself to finally entertain that thought in the wreckage of a church. A detritus of faith. Dust and smoke, a grand gesture and a bag of old books. The slight graze of a finger. The absolute _selflessness_ of the act was staggering in its simplicity. And _that_ was when Aziraphale fell. In the gutted ruins of a holy place, with the kindest of acts on display by a demon. _His_ demon. His Crowley, who had hot footed it over consecrated ground to spare him some _paperwork_ and possibly some embarrassment. 

Because Crowley, no matter what he says to the contrary, is _kind._ A fallen angel who does not envy the status of grace that Aziraphale still holds, even after standing down the powers of Hell _and_ Heaven. Crowley, who does not love for his own sake; gives and gives and _gives..._ yet, seeks nothing in return. Crowley who had slept for a century because they had a row, but showed up, all things forgiven, as soon as Aziraphale needed saving. 

Crowley, the demon who causes mischief rather than true evil. 

Crowley...lovely, sweet Crowley, who has _never_ lied to him. Who has orbited him like a moon, always, always watching for any danger. Always protectively circling. The push and pull of him as gentle as a rolling tide. Forward, then back again. That is Crowley's dance. 

Beautiful, trusting Crowley, who had put his own life in the hands, and body, of an angel. The hereditary enemy. The opposite side. With nary a second thought.

Because Crowley loves, and has loved and will love. That steady flood of hope always lapping against Aziraphale's shores, but never letting the wash of himself come in too far. 

And here, Aziraphale thinks, as wide, ochre eyes watch him behind dark lenses, is where _he_ will take the lead. Change the tempo. Crowley in the doorway. Crowley, with a casual, _"Ready angel? Reservation's just opened up,"_ as he takes his one step into the room. He's not expecting Aziraphale to meet him there. To step closer into his space. Why would he?This is not the dance he knows. But it could be. Oh, how it could be. 

Crowley, startled, moves to step back. Stopped by a gentle hand to his arm and the quietest, " _Don't. Please?"_

Sunglasses being slid off an aquiline nose. Pocketed in a camel hair coat for safe keeping. 

Aziraphale intends to extend that safe keeping to all of the gorgeous, unsure creature in front of him for the rest of their allotted time. But first, this dance, _their_ dance must change. 

Aziraphale owes a duty of care to the heart of his oldest, dearest friend. And he intends not to fail in that endeavor ever again. Never again will Crowley feel undeserving, unimportant, _un_ _loved_. He will defy everything that God, Satan or even prophecy attempts to sever them from each other again. 

Aziraphale's hand drifts down a slender, trembling arm. Laces his fingers through longer, slender ones. This time, when he takes one more step forward, Crowley stays. There's a faint blush dusting across his nose and cheeks, and it's the most enchanting thing Aziraphale has ever seen. 

They're close now. Very close. Close enough where unnecessary breaths can be felt as they ghost across skin. One sure and steady, one just shy of hyperventilating. Crowley looks like he desperately wants to say something; mouth open just a bit. A quick flick of a forked tongue to wet nervous lips. 

And there are things that need saying. But not now. Not yet. Now is Aziraphale's turn to change the steps, change the rules; to take the lead. Guide them through the next song. 

Crowley is still as anything. He is normally frenetic motion, where Aziraphale is inertia. But Crowley - _patient_ , _kind_ Crowley, is waiting. Those beloved eyes filled with the slightest bit of hope. And his _love,_ oh, his _love_. That tidal wave of affection now bearing down unhindered upon Aziraphale; crashing over him like a great flood of warm affection as Aziraphale reaches out to tuck a strand of hair back into place. Lets his hand trail down a temple, over a sigil, to rest against the softness of Crowley's skin. And then he steps forward, just a touch. Rapid-warm breath and whatever Crowley wanted to say, captured beneath his lips as he presses them together. This is their dance now. 

Crowley whines against his mouth; a reedy, quivering sound. He is loath to do it, but he pulls back, just a hairsbreadth, to rest their foreheads together. Crowley looks absolutely wrecked as Aziraphale takes that final step, finally gives a name to _this_ dance. 

"I love you, Crowley." He whispers against wisps of auburn. Pulls back, and kisses him again. This time it is whispered against lips. 

"I _love_ you". 

  
  



End file.
